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September - October 2016 Issue
Lois Winifred Argue: The First RCAF (WD) at Blatchford Field By Erin Hoar
EDITOR’S NOTE: In 2013, an oral history project was launched by the Alberta Aviation
Museum with the goal of preserving the stories of people who made aviation history at
Blatchford Field. One of the interviews recorded was with Lois W. Argue, born on December 12,
1920, and who is now 95 years of age. During the interview, Lois recalled the time that she spent
with the No. 2 Air Observers School (AOS) and her story has helped to describe what life was
like at Hangar 14 during wartime.
In addition, the museum’s archives holds
the Lois Argue collection of photographs,
documents, books and artifacts that she
collected during the war years. They
were instrumental in helping put this
article together.
Lois Argue was living in Regina,
Saskatchewan, when she first heard news
of the outbreak of the Second World War.
Her first thought was to enlist, and soon
after she did, she was sent to Toronto for
medical training with the Royal Canadian
Air Force Women’s Division (RCAF
WD). Once her training was complete,
Lois was stationed in Manitoba and
Saskatchewan before being sent to
Edmonton in early 1942. Figure 1 - Cpl. Lois Argue on the Steps of the Alberta Legislature Building, 1943
(Alberta Aviation Museum Collection)
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Arriving in Edmonton as the first female
from the RCAF Women’s Division, Lois’s
job was to provide medical services to the
men and women who came through the No.
2 AOS. Lois says she “didn’t give a darn”
that she was the only female there, as she
was there to work hard and get the job
done. Lois worked and lived in barracks
alone for about a year before other women
were posted to No. 2 AOS to work
alongside her.
She kept busy by assisting doctors, giving
medical tests to men and women, filling
out admission paperwork, screening new
recruits, completing reports and answering
questions. Lois remembers that some days,
she would administer up to 300
inoculations before noon.
Lois had responsibilities in the medical,
dental and hospital divisions, but since she
had been with No. 2 AOS from early on,
she became the go-to person for whatever
was needed. This included sewing badges on uniforms, attending airmen graduations, processing
discharges and forwarding possessions to the families of people who did not return from
overseas. She would also assist with retrieving recruits who went absent without leave and
tended to airmen who were contemplating suicide. Her duties were varied, but show the trust that
she was given by management and colleagues.
Hangar 14 was a hub of activity during the war. According to Lois, it was an “awful busy place”
and she didn’t think she “ever went to bed.” During this time, the Alaska Highway was also
being built and this meant that buildings were shared with the Americans based at the Edmonton
airport. Part of Lois’s responsibilities were to help coordinate operations for the people working
up north. She remained on-call for emergencies, sent supplies to northern stations, diverted
planes in severe weather and sent ambulances to the tarmac for returning airmen who required
medical care. All this made for a full work load, but Lois remembers that it wasn’t all work. The
social life during this time was huge and on dance night, “the whole Hangar was jammed full.”
The Second World War gave Lois the opportunity to travel, and looking back, she thinks she
would have never even made it to Edmonton from Regina if it hadn’t been for the war. For her, it
wasn’t hard to be away from home and describes the adventure as just natural for her. Before
joining the military, Lois had never been on an airplane, but once in the RCAF WD, she went on
trips with pilots and travelled up north with the doctors. The first flight she ever went on was to
northern Manitoba.
Lois had a keen interest in photography and she took many photos which documented her time in
the RCAF Woman’s Division at Blatchford Field. There are many photos in her collection that
are of herself, sometimes in uniform or flying kit next to an Avro Anson, but she also took many
Figure 2 - Lois Argue at Blatchford Field, 1943 (Alberta Aviation Museum Collection)
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photos of her friends, other air force men and
women, aircraft and the buildings at the airport
base. Lois has stated that there are probably
hundreds of pictures of her in and around
various aircraft. Lois had a number of her
photographs mounted and framed, which
remain on display in the aviation museum’s
volunteer lounge. Many of Lois’s photos and
other items have been on display over the years
for museum visitors to see.
The few years that Lois was based out of
Hangar 14 became very memorable for her.
Later in life, she became a volunteer with the
museum and describes returning to the Hangar
as “like going home.” The building was home
to thousands of air men and women who passed
through Hangar 14 under the British
Commonwealth Air Training Plan (BCATP).
The Alberta Aviation Museum now resides in Hangar 14 and is fortunate to be able to display
artifacts, photographs and stories from this period in history. Stories, such as the one from Lois
Argue, show how necessary it is to preserve these experiences for the future.
The video of Lois Argue’s interview with the Museum’s Oral History project is available at:
https://youtu.be/wjD7_cwpaCo
Sources:
Alberta Aviation Museum. Lois Argue Collection (accessed
August 11, 2016).
Alberta Aviation Museum. Lois Argue - Interviewed June
12, 2014, Oral History Project.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Erin is a former volunteer with the
Alberta Aviation Museum and now works full time as the
museum’s Assistant Executive Director and Assistant
Curator.
Erin graduated in 2013 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in
History from MacEwan University. She has also completed a
Business Administration Diploma from NAIT with a
specialization in Management. She is currently taking the
Cultural Resource Management program through the
University of Victoria.
Figure 3 - Lois in a Camera Shop, 1959 (Alberta Aviation Museum Collection)
Figure 4 - Erin Hoar (John Liddle Collection)
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Ford Trimotor G-CARC: An Aircraft with a Rich Past By Neil Taylor
EDITOR’S NOTE: In the annals of aviation history, a handful of aircraft are remembered by
name because of their affiliation with great aviation events. The Silver Dart, the Spirit of St.
Louis, the Enola Gay, are all revered as technological marvels that made daring new aeronautic
feats possible. But away from the media spotlight, countless other aircraft toiled in relative
obscurity despite their affiliation with important aviation milestones. This story is about one
such aircraft – Ford Trimotor G-CARC – and its ties with some of the early aviation greats.
In the post-First World War period, entrepreneurs and corporations began to recognize the
advantages that aircraft brought to the movement of goods and people. But the war surplus
biplanes could not fill this need, and ever more advanced aircraft designs began to appear.
In the United States the duo of Henry and Edsel Ford, renowned developers of the assembly line
and the Model T Ford, which brought the gift of mobility to the common man, were also
fascinated by aviation. They were among the first to recognize the potential of air travel -
moving large numbers of people great distances in a fraction of the time required by the
automobile or train.
In 1924 the Fords purchased several all-metal aircraft designed by Bill Stout, a brilliant engineer.
These aircraft, the single engine 2-AT Air Transport or Stout Air Pullman, carried eight
passengers in relative comfort, and in 1925 they became the workhorse of the newly formed Ford
Air Transportation Service – the world’s first regularly scheduled commercial cargo airline. By
1925 the Fords were so enamoured with these aircraft that they purchased the manufacturer and
incorporated it within the Ford Motor Company as the Stout Metal Airplane Division.
Desiring more power and greater passenger capacity, the Fords decided to turn the single engine
2-AT into a three engine 4-AT, with one engine in the nose of the aircraft and two others hung
below the wings. Initially designed with an open cockpit, the 4-AT was soon converted to an
enclosed model in order to protect the pilots from inclement weather. This aircraft, which came
to be called the Ford Trimotor, was the largest commercial transport aircraft of its time, capable
of carrying two pilots and eight to twelve passengers 550 miles without refueling. Ultimately
over 100 airlines worldwide flew the Ford Trimotor.
Seventy-nine 4-ATs, and later another 121 5-ATs, were constructed between 1926 and 1933. Of
these aircraft, 4-AT-10 (the 10 denoting the construction number) could lay claim to being the
most important Ford Trimotor produced given the succession of aviation pioneers and innovators
who owned it or flew it.
NC-1077 and Charles Lindbergh
Ford Trimotor 4-AT-10 rolled out of the factory for the first time on September 15, 1926 and
was assigned the American registration, NC-1077. The aircraft was first utilized in a testing
capacity by Bill Stout and the Fords although it was pressed into service to fly one overnight trip
to Indianapolis on behalf of Maddux Airlines.
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The Fords were anxious to promote their new Trimotor aircraft, and Bill Stout came up with an
ideal promotional scheme. Charles Lindbergh, flying the Spirit of St. Louis, had become the first
person to fly a solo non-stop transatlantic flight on May 20-21, 1927, and he was an immediate
media sensation. Upon returning to the United States, he embarked on a 92 city American tour
flying the Spirit of St. Louis. The tour lasted from July to October, 1927.
At the request of the U.S. government, Lindbergh next headed south on a tour of Latin America,
again at the controls of the Spirit of St. Louis. The tour commenced on December 13, 1927 with
its first stops in Mexico.
Bill Stout watched the media frenzy around Lindbergh with envy and hit upon the idea of flying
Lindbergh’s mother, Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh, who happened to live in Detroit, to Mexico to
spend Christmas with her famous son. The airplane Bill Stout planned to use was the Ford
Trimotor, and he expected the publicity flight would help accelerate sales of the new aircraft.
After convincing the Fords and the Lindberghs to participate in the venture, and with the
reluctant support of the U.S. State Department, Stout made the arrangements to have Mrs.
Lindbergh flown south aboard Ford Trimotor NC-1077. Departure took place on December 19th,
and covered 2,055 miles in just under 22 hours. Mrs. Lindbergh arrived to tumultuous crowds,
and the Ford Trimotor became the largest airplane to have ever visited Mexico.
For the next six days, including Christmas, Mrs. Lindbergh was able to enjoy time with her
famous son, while NC-1077 embarked on a series of sightseeing tours. Included on the
passenger lists were the President of Mexico and several of his government officials. Charles
Lindbergh himself got behind the controls and took embassy officials and their families on an
airborne tour of Mexico City. One of his passengers was Anne Morrow, the daughter of the
American Ambassador to Mexico, and just eighteen months later she and Charles were wed.
The Bremen Rescue Mission
NC-1077’s next great adventure took place
in response to the first flight across the
Atlantic from east to west on April 12-13,
1928. The Bremen, a Junkers W.33, had a
three man crew including: the pilot, Captain
Hermann Köhl; the navigator, Major James
Fitzmaurice; and, the aircraft owner,
Freiherr von Hünefeld. It completed the
crossing in 36 hours but became stranded
upon landing on tiny Greenly Island located
in the Strait of Belle Isle between
Newfoundland and Quebec.
The Bremen had been damaged upon
landing, badly needed fuel and required other supplies to leave the island, but while several
Figure 5 - Ford Trimotor NC-1077 on Bremen Rescue Mission, 1928 (Boston Public Library Collection)
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aircraft were dispatched on a relief mission, none were large enough to ferry the quantity of
supplies needed by Köhl and his other crew members.
Once again Edsel Ford stepped forward to make his Trimotor, NC-1077, available for the airlift.
Floyd Bennett and Bernt Balchen, members of Admiral Richard E. Byrd’s 1926 Arctic
expedition, were recruited to fly the Trimotor to Greenly Island. Both were violently ill,
however, to the extent that they diverted to Quebec City where Bennett was admitted to hospital.
He died of pneumonia two days later. Balchen and NC-1077 continued on to Greenly Island
where he met up with the stranded crew of the Bremen. Repairs to the Junkers were
unsuccessful so it was decided that Balchen would fly out the Bremen crew in NC-1077. This
was done over a two day period commencing April 16, 1928 and during the ferrying operation
all members of the Bremen crew took turns flying the Trimotor, adding their names to the
growing impressive roster of aviators who had piloted NC-1077.
After completing this rescue mission, NC-1077 was returned to the Ford factory for repairs and
alterations. As part of the work order, NC-1077’s skis were removed and installed on Admiral
Byrd’s own Ford Trimotor – the Floyd Bennett – which he and Bernt Balchen then took to
Antarctica and flew over the South Pole.
Sky View Lines and the Move to Canada
Meanwhile, NC-1077 was purchased by Sky View Air Lines on May 21, 1928 to fly sightseeing
tours over Niagara Falls. The principal investor in Sky View was Sir Harry Oakes of Chippewa,
Ontario. Oakes was a multi-millionaire who had participated in the Klondyke gold rush, but who
made his fortune with the
discovery of the rich Lakeshore
Mine on Kirkland Lake in
northern Ontario.
Based at Oakes Field on the
Canadian side of Niagara Falls,
NC-1077 received the Canadian
registration, G-CARC. The
aircraft was remodeled to carry
additional passengers, twelve in
all, and in recognition of its
already historic roots, the Trimotor had the following promotional messages painted on its side:
“This machine flew Mrs. Lindbergh to Mexico” and “This machine flew to the rescue of the
Bremen crew”. The flights and the aircraft were an immediate success: according to a Sky View
Lines promotional advertisement, during the 1928 season it flew 12,000 passengers over Niagara
Falls.
In addition to flying out of Oakes Field, tours were also staged from Buffalo, New York, and in
March 1929, the Ford Trimotor was dispatched by Sky View to pick up another famed aviator –
Amelia Earhart. She was to attend the Buffalo Aviation Show, so G-CARC was sent to
Figure 6 - Sky View Lines' Ford Trimotor circa 1928 (T.K. Temple Collection, 1000aircraftphotos.com)
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Rochester to fetch her. On the return trip to Buffalo, Ms. Earhart took her turn at the controls
and is reported to have found the large aircraft to be much to her liking.
For three years G-CARC flew sightseers over Niagara Falls but as the Great Depression
worsened traffic fell off and the large Ford Trimotor was parked at Oakes Field. It had not,
however, escaped the attention of one man – Edmonton’s own Grant McConachie.
McConachie Purchases NC-1077/G-CARC
Grant McConachie, a brash, young entrepreneur and aviator, had established United Air
Transport in 1933 with the backing of Barney Phillips, the son of the owner of the Two Brothers
gold mine in British Columbia. McConachie had been supplying the mine through his earlier
company, Independent Airways.
United Air Transport started operations with two Fokkers (G-CAHE and G-CAHJ) that had
belonged to the defunct Explorers Air Transport. A third Fokker (G-CABJ) was added and by
the winter of 1933-34 McConachie had all three aircraft busily hauling fish from Peter Pond
Lake to the railhead at Cheecham. In the summer months, the aircraft continued to haul
equipment and supplies into the Two Brothers mine, but young McConachie was eager to
expand his aerial operations. This was when he cast his eye on the big Ford Trimotor belonging
to Sir Harry Oakes.
McConachie tried to negotiate countless deals but it was only when he appealed to Oakes’ past
experiences working in the bush and the hardships he faced before the advent of the bush plane,
that he finally made progress. Although the Trimotor was listed for sale at fifty-five thousand
dollars, McConachie managed to cajole Oakes into taking all the money he had available –
twenty-five hundred dollars! For this low sum McConachie had just acquired the largest
commercial airplane in Canada.
McConachie immediately put the Trimotor to work hauling fish – each flight he managed to
pack the aircraft’s cabin with forty-five sacks of fish weighing 3,600 pounds, a full 1,600 pounds
over the top weight assigned to
the aircraft. G-CARC working in
concert with the Fokkers
managed to haul an astounding
million pounds of fish during the
winter of 1934-35.
But fish wasn’t the only cargo
McConachie had in mind for the
Trimotor – he was also interested
in commercial passenger traffic,
so in May 1935 he cheerfully
agreed to fly a single person, Bob
Wilkinson, by charter in G-
CARC from Calgary to Figure 7 - United Air Transport's Ford Trimotor G-CARC circa 1934-35 (Alberta Aviation Museum Collection)
8
Vancouver. The flight had its share of incidents including dense cloud conditions over the
Rockies which forced McConachie to put down in Grand Forks, BC, but eventually they made it
to Vancouver to a hero’s welcome. The feat netted McConachie priceless publicity as it marked
the first commercial flight over the mountains to Vancouver.
McConachie also promoted the Trimotor as the “The Largest Aircraft in Canada” during a
whirlwind tour of country fairs in the Canadian West, where he charged the locals to take
sightseeing trips.
Despite the favourable publicity he received from his exploits flying the Ford Trimotor, the giant
aircraft had one drawback – this model was not designed for operation on floats, a major
detriment to bush flying operations. So McConachie sought a way to dispose of G-CARC, and
he found a willing taker in George Simmons of Northern Airways based at Carcross, Yukon.
The Trimotor had been flown hard
during the McConachie years and was in
rough shape but Grant once again
utilized his adept negotiating skills and
daring flying to convince George
Simmons to purchase the aircraft. One
of the conditions of sale was a
demonstration flight with a full load of
cargo. McConachie readily agreed, and
it was arranged to haul a load of freight
plus two trappers and their eight sled
dogs from Atlin to Carcross.
During the take-off run from the ice on
Atlin Lake, the dogs broke loose and
scurried to the rear of the airplane, the two trappers in hot pursuit. Barely aloft, G-CARC
immediately assumed a tail heavy position and threatened to stall. McConachie cranked the trim
control to full nose down and jammed the engine throttles open. As the airspeed continued to
fall, McConachie ordered Simmons to do something. George dived into the back and dragged
the two trappers into the cockpit. The added weight at the front finally brought the nose down
and increased their flying speed. Disaster was averted and once the aircraft was safely on the
ground, Simmons turned to McConachie and exclaimed, “If you’re planning any more
demonstrations like that forget it. You’ve sold me. It’s a deal. Shake.”
George Simmons was a no nonsense, hard driving individual, typical of those who flew up north.
With Bob Randall, one of his best pilots, often at the wheel, Simmons put G-CARC through its
paces hauling freight and passengers. Unfortunately for G-CARC, a hard landing at Telegraph
Creek on November 21, 1936 buckled the fuselage, but it still managed to fly on until finally
grounded by Canadian aviation inspectors in Carcross in August 1937. Over time scavengers
and others stripped off pieces of the airplane for other uses, and the aircraft slowly deteriorated,
unwanted and unloved.
Figure 8 - G-CARC at Blatchford Field (Alberta Aviation Museum Collection)
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A New Lease on Life for NC-1077/G-CARC
In 1956, Gene Frank of Caldwell, Idaho purchased G-CARC and began moving pieces of it
stateside; the final pieces crossed the border in 1984. Frank’s goal was to restore the Ford
Trimotor to its former glory but due to advancing age, he decided to pass it on to Greg Herrick,
who found himself in the biggest restoration project of his life.
NC-1077/G-CARC’s pieces were
moved to a hangar in Minneapolis
where Hov-Aire of Vicksburg,
Michigan performed the actual
restoration work. Greg Herrick’s
intent was to restore the historic
aircraft to the condition it was in on
December 19, 1927, the day Charles
Lindbergh’s mother departed for
Mexico.
Work began in 2000 and was
completed in 2004. NC-1077/G-
CARC’s exterior now sports the famous Ford logo and the references to the Lindbergh and
Bremen trips as Sky View had added them in 1928. Beneath the pilot’s window are names of
former famous aviators who flew the aircraft during its operational career.
Today NC-1077/G-CARC forms part of Greg Herrick’s Golden Wings Flying Museum based at
Anoka County Airport in Blaine, Minnesota. It is the world’s oldest surviving Ford Trimotor,
and the oldest American airliner in airworthy condition. The private collection is not open to the
general public, but special tours can be arranged for interested groups.
After an amazing career during which
NC-1077/G-CARC crossed paths with
some of the greatest aviators and aviation
entrepreneurs of the past, it is gratifying
to know that it is now in safe hands and
has been beautifully restored, a testament
to its historic past.
Sources:
Butler, Susan East to the Dawn: The Life of
Amelia Earhart (Da Capo Press, 2009)
Herrick, Greg The Amazing Story of
America’s Oldest Flying Airliner: 1927 Ford
Trimotor C-1077, Model 4-AT-A, Serial
Number 10 (Yellowstone Aviation Inc.,
Jackson, Wyoming)
Keith, Ronald A. Bush Pilot with a Briefcase: The Happy-Go-Lucky Story of Grant McConachie
(Doubleday Canada Ltd., Toronto, ON: 1972)
Figure 9 - NC-1077 at Oshkosh Air Venture, 2010 (Rod Bearden Collection, rod.bearden.com)
Figure 10 - NC-1077 at Golden Wings Museum (Rod Bearden Collection, rod.bearden.com)
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Searching for the “Russian Lindbergh” By Yuri Salnikov, Co-Author Larisa Mikhaylova, English Version Edited by Bil Thuma
A memorial honouring Sigizmund Levanevsky – a Soviet pilot dubbed by the U.S. media in
1937 as the "Russian Lindbergh" – was unveiled at the Khrunichev Space Center in 2012 to
commemorate the 75th anniversary of his disappearance and death. For decades, Levanevsky has
been a symbol of Russian-U.S. cooperation in the aerospace field. The following is a capsule
story of the failed mission and our efforts to solve the mystery or discover where their aircraft
may have come to rest in the Arctic waters, near Prudhoe Bay.
Levanevsky and his crew of five went missing somewhere off the northern coast of Alaska as
they attempted to make the first cargo-passenger flight from Moscow to the ‘Lower 48’ via
Fairbanks. They were following on the prop wash of two other Russian long distance non-stop
flights in June and July 1937, taken in single engine Tupolev ANT-25s which landed near
Portland, Oregon (9,130 km in 63 hours and 25 minutes) and California (11,500 km in 62 hours
and 17 minutes) respectively.
In this third attempt to make aviation
history, their first stop Fairbanks was
chosen because, at a distance of 6,650
kilometers from Moscow, it fell within
the range of the airplane that
Levanevsky would fly— a prototype 4-
engine bomber that had been converted
into a civilian aircraft, tail number N-
209. The aircraft's designers cautioned
that the plane was still largely untested,
but Soviet pilots had established
several records in it and other Soviet
aircraft and planned to demonstrate its
capabilities to the Americans. A full
year was needed to prepare for the
flight, but the Soviet official in charge
of the project, wanting to curry favor
with Josef Stalin, gave Levanevsky
only three months.
Unfortunately, under such a tight timeframe, the flight crew never got a chance to gel as a team
nor could they correct some engineering flaws apparent in its handling. They made several short
training flights, such as a 1,930-kilometer roundtrip from Moscow to Melitopol, Ukraine, but
didn't fly 30 hours or more nonstop to test the aircraft’s endurance on distances comparable to
the Moscow-Fairbanks route. Neither did they fly blind to test the plane in conditions of poor
visibility or in severe arctic weather conditions.
All of this made the crew jittery. That is why, as the men set out on August 12, 1937, the crew's
radio operator, Nikolai Galkovsky said, half-jokingly, "We are flying to our deaths."
Figure 11 – N-209 and its Crew (All Photos Via Archival Research of Salnikov and Mikhaylova)
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The Historic Flight Begins
In a nation’s first, Soviet authorities permitted foreign correspondents based in Moscow to watch
the takeoff. The New York Times correspondent posed a sensitive question to Levanevsky,
asking: "Mr. Levanevsky, do you feel lucky this time?" referring to an earlier unsuccessful
attempt to fly over the North Pole and into America.
"I think we were very lucky to be entrusted
with this flight," he responded, "and I
believe that people will fly this route — with
or without us."
At 18:15 Moscow time as evening was
descending over the Shchelkovo air base,
the red and blue re-purposed Bolkhovitinov
DB-A N-209 sprung into the air in only 35
seconds – but to witnesses and the crew, a
wisp of smoke trailed the right outboard
engine. Engineers predicted that the engine
would soon stop smoking but, 19 hours
later, the last voice radio message received
from the crew referred to the same problem: "The far-right engine has quit due to a problem with
the oil system … Entering overcast skies … Elevation 4,600 meters. Will attempt a landing."
After that partial transmissions were picked up and then one final coded message was received
… 48 3400 92 RL then only static. 48 3400 92 remains a mystery.
The Search for Levanevsky and N-209
The search began the next day. In
Washington, Soviet Ambassador
Konstantin Oumansky contacted famed
Arctic explorer Vilhjalmur Stefansson,
who offered to rent three airplanes to fly
to Alaska and search along the 148th
meridian, which Levanevsky had been
following as the plane's route to
Fairbanks.
By August 14, two days after the
departure from Moscow, three American
and one Canadian team started combing
the coastal islands of Alaska.
Figure 12 - Levanevsky Indicating Intended Destination in Alaska
Figure 13 - Planned Route of N-209 from Moscow to Fairbanks, August 12, 1937
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Stefansson meanwhile, recruited several outstanding men for his search party, including
experienced polar explorer Sir Hubert Wilkins. The Soviet Embassy rented a seaplane, and on
August 22, Wilkins and his team flew to Alaska and made five long-range flights toward the
North Pole before the Arctic Ocean began to freeze over.
Finding nothing, they returned to New York, where they followed Stefansson's advice and
purchased the most modern airplane available, the Lockheed Electra. The crew soon flew back to
the Arctic.
Wilkins benefited from a string of clear lunar days
with good visibility, but he found nothing. The
icebreaker Krasin arrived at Point Barrow from
Chukotka and delivered several short-range
airplanes. The ship was also to act as a radio
beacon for two seaplanes. However, the ice soon
began closing off all water routes, and the Krasin
was forced to return to Chukotka with the
airplanes.
Many polar pilots speculated that Levanevsky's
aircraft iced over, went out of control and crashed
into the sea. Others thought they may have veered
toward Ellesmere Island or crossed the coast and
crashed into the Brook’s Range south of the
Beaufort Sea coastline.
Polar radio operators and amateur radio buffs from
a number of countries reported picking up extremely faint signals thought to be distress calls
from Levanevsky's crew several days after N-209 disappeared.
They could have survived. The crew had taken off from Moscow with a six-week supply of food,
weapons for hunting, and sleeping bags. Just before takeoff, they also were given bags
containing furs to present to the wives of prominent U.S. officials, a barrel of caviar and letters to
post in the United States. But for some unexplained reason they left their emergency radio
behind.
But finally the search was called off after 9 months. In total, efforts involved 24 Soviet and 7
American and Canadian aircraft, several vessels and land parties combing the shore and
mountains. No trace of the airplane or its crew was found.
Levanevsky, one of the first Heroes of the Soviet Union, was only 35 years old at the time of his
last flight, and his disappearance shook the world. A year after the tragic event, Soviet pilot
Valery Chkalov recalled Levanevsky, saying, "You see, only death could keep him from his goal.
The skies will make us pay dearly for a long time." Chkalov himself died several months later
while testing a new fighter plane.
Figure 14 - Icebreaker Krasin - One of many Search Vessels Commissioned to Look for N-209
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New Clues to the Loss of N-209
In 1989, while working at the U.S. Library of Congress, I was reading old radio messages and
found that in the fall of 1937, radio operator Stanley Morgan, who was based at Point Barrow,
met with Inupiat natives from Oliktok Point, an area about 250 to 300 kilometers to the east.
Looking through binoculars, three Inupiat hunters had seen a large flying machine about 15
kilometers north of the mainland and flying at low altitude. It hit the water, pulled up and then
crashed into the sea near the Jones Islands. It was a stormy, rainy evening.
The next day, they boated out to the scene of the accident and found an oil slick. One native, who
was also a college student, took note of the incident in his diary. Radioman Morgan informed his
superiors of what he had learned.
A year later, a clergyman from California, Homer Kellems, sailed into Barrow on his schooner.
Morgan related the story he had heard from the Inupiat, and Kellems used the only tool available
to search for the wreckage of the Soviet aircraft— a compass. At one point, a sailor noticed the
compass pointing downward and informed Kellems, but he was unable to find anything.
Ice soon began forming near the islands, and Kellems quickly sailed back to California. From
there, he wrote a detailed letter describing his efforts to the Soviet Embassy, which in turn
forwarded his letter and Morgan's radio message to the Foreign Affairs Commissariat, where the
documents were placed in the archives.
Not long after, World War II broke out, and the Levanevsky search was shelved, and memory
faded of this valiant attempt to develop air routes over the pole.
What started as a search for the only B-25 that survived intact from Doolittle’s raid on Tokyo led
WWII veteran, pilot and author Walter Kurilchyk to Russia and on to the mystery of the
disappearance of N-209. That set in motion my involvement beginning in the 1980s with several
visits and searches in the area of Spy and Thesis Islands, part of the Jones Group.
In 2011, I had the opportunity to meet specialists at the Geophysical Institute at the University of
Alaska, Fairbanks. In different years and with different teams, together we organized four short
expeditions to the site where the airplane was thought to have crashed.
Using magnetometers and sonar from both sea and ice, 5 square kilometers of the 36 square
kilometers in question were scanned. Continuing the search under the International Heritage
Aviation Search (IHAS) group and with improved technologies will require additional resources,
modern geophysical equipment and a crack team of young geophysicists and volunteers. They
will be looking for the airplane's four large 690 kilogram 12-cylinder EM34 FRN turbocharged
engines and other metal parts that probably remain intact, even after the passage of 75+ years.
Today, when the United States and Russia are actively working to develop the Arctic Shelf, the
joint search for the aircraft flown by Sigizmund Levanevsky — a pioneer of the Arctic air route
and Hero of the Soviet Union— could become a symbol of scientific collaboration between the
two countries. Only through cooperative efforts, like that of the 1937-1938 search that involved
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Americans, Canadians and Russians, will it be possible to establish once and for all whether
Levanevsky and his crew went down over Alaskan waters.
Postscript
Levanevsky was one of those larger than life aviation pioneers who in the 1920s and 1930s
challenged the laws of physics in aircraft that were evolving rapidly from the fabric, wire and
wood flying machines of WWI to the all-metal monocoque airframes and multi-engine aircraft
that took to the skies during WWII. He and his experienced crew were part of the unique, daring
corps of men and women who were known as Stalin’s Falcons.
The N-209 and its crew disappeared just 6 weeks after Amelia
Earhart vanished in her Electra, on a similar ‘adventure’ trying to
enter the aviation record book.
IHAS, the International Heritage Aviation Search group is a
registered not-for-profit organization dedicated to finding missing
aircraft of historical significance. The details relating to the current
search for N-209 may be found at www.historicaircraftsearch.com
Information on making a donation to this search may be found there.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Yuri Salnikov is a Russian journalist and
filmmaker who has authored and produced over 100 documentary movies featuring aviation,
cosmonauts and arctic exploration. Mr. Salnikov has been heavily involved in the investigation
of the lost N-209 aircraft. Mr. Salnikov has produced a short film about N-209 and the
Levanevsky search in Alaska which may be viewed by clicking on
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hb-nNzLcjZ0&feature=youtu.be
He is an international fellow of the Smithsonian Institute, Air & Space
Museum.
Larisa Mikhaylova is an editor, literary
critic and translator. She teaches at
Lomonosov Moscow State University and
has assisted Mr. Salnikov in archival
research and coordinating the N-209 search
project.
Bil Thuma, is a geophysicist, international
consultant and President of AGT Systems.
He has been involved in numerous searches
of missing aircraft with current and planned projects involving a
Norwegian Cornell, a Swordfish, two Yales, a Vampire and a DC-4.
He is a founding member of the Aviation Archaeology and Heritage
Association and is Director of the International Heritage Aviation
Search group.
Figure 15 - Yuri Salnikov
Figure 16 - Larisa Mikhaylova
Figure 17 - Bil Thuma
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Inventive Life of Warren Smith – Part 2 By Warren Smith as told to Danielle Metcalf Chenail
EDITOR’S NOTE: During the Second World War thousands of Edmontonians enlisted in the
Canadian military, many of them opting for the Royal Canadian Air Force. While not seeking
fame or glory, these individuals put their lives in danger and many made the ultimate sacrifice.
Others toiled in relative obscurity, proud just to serve their country. All of them deserve to have
their stories told so we will never forget their contributions to our freedom. In Part 2 of the
Inventive Life of Warren Smith, we look at Warren’s service in Burma and his journey back to
Edmonton after the war’s end.
Arriving in Britain
I got to England in June 1944. I left home, here in Edmonton, on the train, and I think the next
day was D-Day. We spent about a week on the train before we stopped off at Montreal and
Lachine again. Then we took the train to the coast and loaded onto our ship for about two days.
By then it was three or four days after D-Day. That was a big thing for the Allies – we had gotten
a foothold.
Linton-on-Ouse was the station I was based out of in England. It is near York and had been a
permanent base for the RAF before the war but was given to the Canadians about halfway
through the war, so we could form our own group.
England to Burma
The squadrons - 435 and 436 transport squadrons - were assembled in Canada, but then they
found when they got to England that a few of them didn’t quite fit the bill – the boys needed
some experience. All we had were young kids: 18, 19 years old. I was 20 when I joined 435
squadron in England but I was married, so I was always looked on as the father type and they’d
come to me for advice.
I was no genius in geography in school but I sure wished I had been when I started travelling like
I did during the war, because they never did tell us where we were going. I thought I was going
to be stationed in France because they were moving a lot of people like myself, mechanics or
ground crew - radio or otherwise, onto air fields as they captured them from the Germans. And
then they started giving me shots that were supposedly protection against tropical diseases. I had
8 of them in one afternoon and every one of us was sick from all those shots.
On our way over to Burma we had about 25 people in the plane including the crew. We had seats
along the wall and you sat facing over the aisle, but with our long kit bags piled right in front of
us so high, you couldn’t see the guy across the plane from you. I remember we landed in a place
called Benito in North Africa. Unfortunately we started getting hot weather sickness almost as
soon as we hit North Africa, and every time we landed somebody was sick. That’s also where we
got our first taste of Montezuma’s revenge. The result wasn’t always throwing up, and you try
crawling over these kit bags in the middle of the airplane wanting to get to the one and only
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toilet. It took a lot of skill to perform that in time, I’ll say. I know I was wishing for a closer
bathroom several times and a lot of us never made it in time.
We stopped overnight near Cairo, Egypt the second night. After Cairo, the pilot flew over
Jerusalem with Baghdad the next stop. That was our first taste of real heat. We landed in Karachi
in October 1944 and were to acclimatize there for about two weeks. On one of our first outings I
bought a diary, even though we weren’t supposed to keep one. But they never found it.
Based in Burma
The first instructions I remember getting, after we landed in the forward lines on Christmas Eve
1944 and we had no place to stay, was to just lay down on the ground for the night. We started
operations the next morning. We were flying the DC-3s loaded down with goods, food, clothing,
armament, guns, rifles, everything ammunition. Most of it was dropped by air from the plane.
We were right on the border of India
and Burma - within almost three
minutes we would be on the other
side of the border. In fact we actually
marched into Burma from our base
one day and didn’t even know we’d
crossed the line from India to Burma.
We were very close to the Irrawaddy
River, which would take you out into
the Indian Ocean.
We didn’t have windows in our
barracks - no panes of glass or
anything. We had openings with
covers that were on a hinge or on a
rope that was on a pulley up above. During monsoons, when it rained too hard, we let them down
in a hurry, and we’d kind of fasten them at the bottom so they wouldn’t blow open.
My buddy and I made our own shower. We got ahold of one of the disposable long-range gas
tanks, strung it up in the bush, put it on a pulley, and we’d pulley it down, fill it with water, and
after we were through showering in the morning, put it up there for next time. During the day a
lot of times you would come home soaking wet from sweating, and we’d do that.
We had uniforms from the First World War that the British army had worn. We were given a
pith helmet. It came way out, much like a fireman’s at the back. That’s to shield the back of your
neck because you were working in the field. They discontinued those after the First World War.
But they dug them out for us.
Dress code wasn’t in effect. We just dressed in shorts all the time and a lot of the times no shirt
either. We were forced, however, to put long pants on at sundown, and a shirt with long sleeves.
That was for the mosquitoes.
Figure 18 - Warren (on far left) with Fellow Servicemen in Burma (Warren Smith Collection)
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Kickers
In Burma our squadron flew DC-3s, or Dakotas, twin-engine planes. We were a transport
squadron so we were not active. In other words we had no armament whatsoever. Well, the pilots
or aircrew wore sidearms - just revolvers – in case of capture, but most of them would take the
guns off because they were bothering them too much while they were flying.
The Dakotas were terrific planes. I can’t think of any time except when an engine overhaul had
to be done, when they had any minor trouble and had to be grounded. Even the radio equipment
was accurate with very little trouble.
The air crew usually had to make
four to six circuits before we could
get everything unloaded, by
pushing it out by parachute or even
dead drop. We would start getting
packages as close to the door as
possible because the pilot wouldn’t
want to go back over that run more
than two times. And nine times out
of ten at the end of your drop you
were over enemy territory. They’d
take pot shots at you, usually with
rifles. The top speed of those
airplanes was only about 250 miles
an hour or so, too fast for a bullet to
catch you, although we often came back with bullet holes in the floor of the plane.
This was how I got into the air. Ground crew could go flying as kickers because we were kicking
the goods out. This was available to all ground crew if we wanted it. They paid us good for it and
we had a great time. On our days off every 10 or 14 days we had nothing to do sitting in the
jungle, and they paid us 50 cents a trip. Mind you, you could make four trips in a day so that was
$2 that you were getting.
Every time the air crew came back they had to go through the routine of letting their superior
officer know what they saw or didn’t see. Even as kickers, they would ask us if we saw anything
because our airplanes didn’t have any doors on them. It was too much hassle getting the door off
so we just left it off. We used to stand at the door to watch below us. It was jungle most of the
time but every once in a while we’d go over a village and see people waving at us.
Finding Music and Direction
So the Daks had to have direction-finding equipment and what they had were these trailing
antennae. This was a radio and underneath the belly of the plane you would see what almost
looks like a huge bullet, tapered off at the end, but in there was a loop of wire that would turn
continually when they turned it on. Now the trailing antenna, was a piece of steel wire, about 1/8
Figure 19 - Dakotas Operating Over Burma WW2 (RCAF Collection)
18
of an inch thick with a weight on the end of it and it had to be wound up every time. The crew let
it out once they got flying, and it would trail along behind. It was part of the radio equipment –
almost like a compass. The flight crew would tune into a radio station, say New Delhi or
Calcutta or a place like that. They could be Air Force stations or army stations, as long as they
weren’t mobile. They got to know the stations they could tune in to, but a lot of the times the
signals from army equipment on the ground wasn’t good enough to hear.
Where the accuracy fell down was when the monsoons came along. They were violent storms,
and a lot of times that could give you a false reading, and you had to be on your toes to know
that. You had an indicator that you were getting a radio signal a certain direction, and the loop in
the bullet below the belly of the plane would circle around and around until it would settle on
this station, or another station that you knew. They could be hundreds of miles apart.
Women of War
I remember a group of nurses landed at our base one night. There was, I think, about eight nurses
visiting. I didn’t know anything about why they were there, and it didn’t matter to us, really.
They made a tour of the camp and I remember I was in my cot. We called it a bed, but it was
really a rope bed. These nurses went walking by and one of our guys happened to look out one of
the windows and he says, “Women!” The answer that came back was: “Yes, we’re women.
We’re nurses, and we’re English.” Well, if we hadn’t been in bed and sleeping or close to it – I
think we’d all have raced out there, forgetting we slept with no clothes on! I was sound asleep
and thought I was dreaming as we never heard any women speaking English on our base.
No Messing Around
We were supplied with food, but it wasn’t good. Even
so, you did not complain about your food in the Air
Force. Even here in Canada the officer of the day would
come around and ask how the food was that day. You
would never hear anyone say not good - it was always
good. And it was here in Canada, in comparison to
what we got in Burma. I’d say ninety times out of a
hundred our main meal consisted of raw-looking beef in
a flour and rice package. We were always yelling at the
cooks, the poor guys, about this stuff. They couldn’t
help it, but we had to blame somebody.
I think once they got sick of our grumbling and took
matters into their own hands. There were two mules
that the peasants used in their rice fields to haul big
bundles. It was a particularly bad time for food, and all
of a sudden those two mules disappeared. And we
swear that our cook went out and got us our meal of
steaks. They were better than what we’d been getting,
Figure 20 - Warren Smith in Burma, circa 1944-45 (Warren Smith Collection)
19
and we enjoyed it, I’ll tell you. We never thought of it at the time. I think the next day somebody
finally clued in and asked, “Where did those mules go anyway last night?”
And somebody else yelled, “Oh, that’s what we had for supper last night!” We could make fun
of it at the time, but it almost sickens you to think back. But you knew you had to eat, that’s all.
Our messing officer in Burma – every day he’d do his duty and ask, “How’s the food today,
fellas? Oh, good.” And away he’d go before you could even answer! He was one of the most
unpopular guys you’ve ever seen. You never heard so many boos in your life as what he got.
Eventually, he said enough was enough, and he came in this day and says, “I’ve figured out
something for you guys.” He says, “I think we can make your better food – if you’re willing to
pay.” Now I can’t remember the sum. But I’m going to say four rupees, which would have been
about a dollar. I’m not sure if it was every week or every payday – we got paid twice a month, I
think. Anyway, he had this worked out. He says, “I’ve been in Calcutta. I have to fly in there
once a week.” And he says, “I’ve visited a lot of the markets there.” So he says “If all of you will
chip in,” (I’d say we’re looking at close to seven hundred fellas) and we did. I’m not gonna say
we lived like kings, but we got stuff that we had never had before.
I’ve often said I think that 435 Squadron was the only fighting force who had to buy its own
meals. The officers were always fed better, but they still took part in this whole deal the Mess
Officer came up with. But every once in a while we’d get a shipment in from Australia, which
included orange juice - great big vats of it. And we’d get other goodies which weren’t considered
goodies but they were to us. They’d come in, and boy oh boy, were they ever good.
The drinking water we got was so heavily chlorinated I wouldn’t drink a cup of tea for years
after I got home. The water had to be treated so strongly. It was all in a carved barrel that had to
be refilled every day. We had to use that even for brushing our teeth. The things we had to put up
with – it’s been acknowledged through official circles a little, but not too much.
Going Home
Our government didn’t anticipate the ending of the war that fast. Our superiors didn’t know
anything about these atomic bombs any more than we did – it was all terribly secret. I’d never
heard of one.
Finally, we were all flying in the Dakotas back to Britain, the airplanes that could still make it.
Instead of 25 people packed in the back like when we went over in ’44 there were about 14 of us
with the crew. We sat on long rows of benches along the sides and our kit bags were in the
center. That’s where we sat, facing this pile of kit bags. When you got in in the morning we
could go 6-8 hours before we stopped to refuel, and everybody got airsick.
On our way back we flew from Burma to Karachi - right from the eastern border of India at
Burma to Karachi almost at the western border. We flew over absolutely desecrated country for
nearly two days to get there. The plan was to only stay one night in Karachi, but the next day it
was so foggy that we couldn’t get off the ground and had to stay an extra night.
20
From there we took a more southern route along the coastline, then we landed in the central part
of Africa to refuel. It was lunch time, which was a good thing because it was tremendously hot.
We flew over the Red Sea, I can remember, and landed at a port called Aden on the way back.
We landed at the far end of the runway from the buildings, and we had to taxi all that way; we
had doors back on our aircraft by then and it was extremely hot. We used to joke that we
couldn’t find the air conditioning handle in the airplane. A couple of guys threatened to open the
door and throw it away, but we thought we better not.
The next stop to refuel was up in the north – the Gaza strip. We stayed in Tel Aviv overnight
because we could only fly about 6 hours at a time. The next morning we came out to our plane
and our skipper wasn’t there; the RAF sergeant in charge of the Tel Aviv base had grounded our
plane. He grounded the plane because – like most of our Daks – it didn’t have the engine
apparatus that allowed you to go over 10,000 feet. Usually the highest we’d be flying was about
6,000 feet, but it turned out we were going directly by Mount Vesuvius, which was erupting.
Anyway, this sergeant had us shut down and we weren’t going anywhere until we had one of
those parts installed. And of course they didn’t have one there, they’d have to bring one in. Our
skipper came along, and he wanted to get home as bad as the rest of us. He and the sergeant had
a few words and the last I heard was our skipper, he didn’t have a gravelly voice but I can still
hear him saying, “Sergeant, you’re not standing at attention. I want a salute from you - you never
gave me one, and I want one right now! Now you just stand there.” He waved us all into the
plane and I don’t know if that sergeant is still standing there now.
Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea both engines stopped. There were eight of us ground
crew - they’d taken the seats out of the aircraft and so we were just laying on the floor. It was a
hot day, the pilots had fallen asleep and they forgot to switch the tank when one ran dry. So there
was kind of a mad scramble and somebody says, “Where’s the parachutes?” I said, “The same
place they always are!” During our tenure in Burma we didn’t have them. There was probably no
more than a 30-second pause, but when both motors stopped, that sure woke us up. I’ve never
heard of any of the pilots admitting to it though.
Finally I was back in England waiting for the boat home. We were kept in Bournemouth and
they held a parade every morning. We didn’t stray far because if they
unexpectedly got a couple of extra ships that weren’t full, they’d call a
parade and go down the list there. Nobody knew where you were on
the list, so you wanted to be sure you were there for parade!
EDITOR’S NOTE: Upon returning to Edmonton and reuniting with
his wife Joyce, Warren Smith 6began repairing radios, then tape
recorders. One day, he was called out to the Edmonton Gardens to fix
the public address system and ended up becoming an announcer for
the hockey games played there. He spent thirty years announcing
hockey and went on to host all manner of events. Warren also took to
selling insurance, then acting as a travelling salesman for a paper
wholesaler. In his later years Warren returned to England on vacation
and actively participated in reunions for Burma veterans. Figure 21 - Warren Smith (Warren Smith Collection)
21
Who shares the hangar? EAHS Member Organizations
Air Cadet Museum & Archives Alberta Aviation Museum
Civil Air Search & Rescue Association Edmonton Soaring Club
Edmonton Homebuilt Aircraft Association Ex-RCAF Air Alliance
504 Blatchford Field Royal Canadian Air Cadets Ex-RCAF Women’s Association
180-20th Field Regiment Royal Canadian Army Cadets 418 RCAF Squadron Association
700 (Edmonton) Wing Air Force Association of Canada Ventura Memorial Flight Association
A VERY SPECIAL THANKS TO OUR SPONSORS
“In Formation” is a publication of the Alberta Aviation Museum
Executive Director – Jean Lauzon Address: 11410 Kingsway NW
Assistant Executive Director – Erin Hoar Edmonton AB T5G 0X4
Museum Curator – Lech Lebiedowski
Executive Assistant – Michelle Shirtcliff
Administrative Assistant – Barb Frazer Phone: 780-451-1175
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